


Scar Tissue

by Todesengel



Category: Voltron: Lion Voltron
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-14
Updated: 2004-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:43:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some nights he dreams of everything he's given up, and the life he will never know again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scar Tissue

Hunk woke with a moan and an empty ache deep in his chest. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and bent his head. His fingers shook as he ran them through his sweaty hair, and tried not to cry. Sorrow burned deep within him, sent tears that pained his eyes and grieving wails that made his throat tight. For five nights running he had dreamt of Ellas, his home planet, remembered all that he had given up, all that he had left behind. It had been almost a decade since he walked among his father’s olive trees, breathed in the hot, dusty air and danced for joy at the first live-giving winter rain. How long it seemed to him, how different he was from the youth that had screamed in angered pain as one of his neighbors scored a lucky strike in one of the meaningless wars that raged during the dead summers, or splashed among the crystal waves of the warm ocean, playing with the dolphins. Yet the memories were still as bright as they had been his first night at the Academy, when nothing he did could stop the slow, thick tears that leaked from his eyes to stain his pillow. And the ache of homesickness still twisted his stomach and pained his heart.

Ten years, ten long years of exile and the wound still ached, still bled.

Behind him, Keith stirred, lifted his head from the pillow and looked about in drowsy confusion.

“Hunk?” Keith asked sleepily. His long, soft arms gently wrapped themselves Hunk’s neck, held him in a loose embrace. Hunk could feel Keith’s slight weight against his back, and his warm breath brushed the nape of Hunk’s neck, which sent a long, slow shiver down his spine.

Hunk sighed and closed his eyes against the sudden tears that burned his eyes. He grabbed Keith’s hand, and kissed the shiny bracelet-like circle of scar tissue that wrapped around Keith’s wrist. He remembered the first time he had seen this scar, and the similar scars that belted Keith’s ankles and his other wrist. A brief glimpse of a pink skin and scarred back, and hair so black it shone blue in the fluorescent light, and then Keith was hidden beneath the dull grey of an Academy uniform. The glimpse was so brief, so fleeting that Hunk almost didn’t realize that it was Keith; young, scared, embarrassed Keith, the sixteen year old first year who was miles smarter than anyone else in his class, and flinched like a beaten dog at every sudden movement, every loud noise, every invasion of personal space.

That quick peek of scarred back and creamy skin was enough to intrigue Hunk, however. His interest was piqued by the scars, and he wondered what story Keith’s skin held. There was something familiar about the youth, as well, something that made Hunk think he knew the boy from some other life, some other time. And so he spent the next few periods staring at Keith, drawn to the frightened, shrinking form, until Michael smacked him on the arm and hissed, “Hunk, pay attention or else Professor Stephens is going to throw that eraser at you.”

Hunk broke out of his haze, looked around, finally noticed the dirty looks he was getting from Sven and Lance, Keith’s self-appointed protectors. He sighed. Looked away. Snuck quick peeks out of the corners of his eyes and from beneath his eyelashes. Cursed himself for his obsession, but nothing could make him look away.

And he hated himself for his unhealthy obsession, hated himself for this weakness and hated Keith for being so beautiful, so flawed and small and child-like. So like the brother Hunk had killed through carelessness.

For three days he stared and sighed and pined, slightly, over this strange boy until during the lunch period on the third day Michael put down his sandwich and stared at Hunk, who pushed his food about listlessly. His blue eyes watched the larger boy with concern and growing bafflement. This wasn’t the Hunk he knew, the take-charge, impulsive, go-getter. This wasn’t his best friend.

“Hunk. Snap out of it.”

“What?” Hunk looked up, brown eyes listless. “Is lunch over?”

“No. Hunk, what’s wrong with you? It’s like you’ve been replaced by a pod person. Should I be searching for a shallow grave somewhere?”

“Huh? Oh.” Hunk sighed and looked down. “No. Sorry. I just haven’t been, you know, feeling up to snuff.” He sighed again and looked over to where Keith sat, Sven and Lance hovering over him. Michael looked over as well and groaned.

“Dude, seriously, stop looking at him. People are going to start thinking you’re gay or something.”

And that brought Hunk up short, because he had never thought of _that_ possibility. Sure, everyone knew Keith was gay, but Hunk had thought his curiosity stemmed from a purely secular standpoint. Here was a boy, marked with scars, marked with the permanent evidence of slavery around his wrists and ankles—or if not slavery then prison, and that was just as bad---and Hunk wondered how he had ever managed to enter the Academy. But sexual attraction? Impossible. Hunk knew better than to be attracted to a man. On Ellas, death came slowly and painfully to those who were thought to be sexually deviant.

He did not want to experience his father’s justice.

But that didn’t explain the mystery. And with the puzzle still unsolved, Hunk couldn’t even begin to forget his obsession, drop his sidelong vigil.

From across the dining hall, Keith looked up and turned his head, just enough so that his black eyes caught Hunk’s chocolate brown. For an eternal moment, they gazed into each other’s eyes, black mirrors catching and reflecting soft, brown pools. And then Keith turned away, cocked his head to something Sven was saying and smiled softly, shyly.

Hunk wondered if Keith knew he was driving Hunk insane.

It was three months of hopeless pining later before he finally managed to corner Keith, back in the locker room where the obsession had begun. It was pure coincidence that they had both chosen that day to work out, that they didn’t miss each other by seconds, that Keith had taken his time with dressing, favoring tired muscles, and Hunk had rushed through his shower. The day was almost over, the sun long set, and had Keith not been alone for the first time in months, Hunk probably would have left Keith alone, saved his questions for another day. It would have been so easy to let Keith leave, to respect the silent alarm that tensed Keith’s body when Hunk noisily began to dress and made the younger boy’s movements stiff and jerky. It would have been so easy to let Keith pass without comment, without harassment, even though the younger man had to pass Hunk’s locker in order to get to the exit. But opportunity was knocking and so Hunk, tired, sore, and dripping from his shower, reached out and gripped Keith’s shoulder with his big heavy hand, even though he didn’t know what he wanted to say, what he wanted to ask.

“Wait. I want to talk to you.”

Beneath his hand, Hunk could feel Keith tremble, feel the desire for flight that was so strong he wondered that Keith didn’t lift right off the ground and fly away. He could feel Keith’s frightened pulse through the thin cotton of the school uniforms, and the dips of scars unseen. Outwardly, Keith betrayed none of this fear, his face closed and empty of all emotion save weary resignation. His thin shoulders slumped forward, rounded in defeat and unhappy anticipation. Hunk wondered how many times Keith had been confronted in locker rooms, how many times he had been abused. Hunk took a deep breath, inhaled the spicy clean scent of Keith’s freshly washed body and felt something deep inside him change. He felt something blooming, as if a flower was opening inside his chest, something pure and beautiful and indescribable and it frightened him, frightened him so much that he released Keith as if he had been burned and stared at the defenseless boy in abject wonder.

Had he not thought it impossible, Hunk could have sworn it was love. But he hardly knew this boy, and he certainly wasn’t attracted to me. But that sharp shock, that sensation of warmth and joy, what else could it has been?

“What are you?” Hunk whispered.

Keith looked back at him, dull curiosity in his blank eyes. He knew better than to run, now, knew from experience that if he just bore whatever the larger boy had in mind for him patiently, he wouldn’t have a new scar to add to his collection, a new bruise to explain to Lance and Sven.

And Hunk realized, suddenly, that he had seen that look before, seen it on his brother’s face, the same dull uncaring in Josef’s eyes right before the first stone hit him. In Keith’s eyes, Hunk saw his brother again, accusing, demanding an answer for his painful death.

Hunk was sure he would never forget that burning day when his brother was stoned to death, killed as he knelt over the body of his already dead lover. How could he forget, when he had been the one to betray Josef, when it had been his careless tongue that exposed his beloved brother?

“No.” Hunk shook his head. “No, this isn’t possible. You’re dead.”

“Dead?” Keith backed away, slowly, stopping when he hit one of the long benches that ran between the rows of silent lockers. “I’m not dead.”

“You’re dead. You’re dead.” Hunk turned violently away, shut his eyes against Keith’s haunting eyes and slammed his fist into a locker. Pain blossomed in his mind, bright starbursts of red and white and for a moment it was almost enough to drown out the memory of dust and blood and bruised, broken bodies. “You’re dead.”

He began to cry and sank to the ground, great body trembling with pain. He thought he was over this, thought he had beaten, repressed, destroyed this demon. As if from a great distance, he heard Keith leave, feet making soft shuffling noises against the concrete, leaving him alone in his remembered guilt.

“You’re dead. You’re dead,” Hunk mumbled. “I killed you.” His words were echoed back to him by the empty lockers, an endless reminder of his guilt.

It was true night by the time Hunk returned to his dorm, overcast and as dark outside as Hunk felt in his soul. The wind whined around the building corners and cut through Hunk’s clothing. The large man shivered but didn’t really care. He hurt everywhere, and he was bruised and bleeding, slightly, from a cut near his eye and one on his cheek because he’d gone out and gotten into a fight with some toughs from the Naval Academy. He wanted to hurt, to be hurt, to punish himself for something that had happened so many, many years before, when he had been just a child. Hunk almost wished that there were drugs or alcohol in his room, because he wanted to dull the pain so badly, wanted to seek refuge somewhere, anywhere where he could forget. But he wasn’t the sort of person to get drunk or wasted, and he didn’t have a clue as to where to go. So he had walked, and walked, and walked and tried to kill himself in a parking lot by taking on three big, beefy, drunken guys.

He was tired, dead tired, bone tired, drained so totally and completely, and sore and not very surprised when he came to his door and saw Keith sitting in the hallway. Nothing was going to surprise him right now.

“What do you want?” Hunk said, voice gravelly and harsh.

“I.” Keith looked scared and he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, scrabbling up the wall until he was standing and he was actually taller than Hunk had expected. “I. You. You looked, um, bad.”

Hunk grunted and pushed past Keith, keying open his door. “So?”

“I. I thought maybe you, um, you wanted, I dunno, company?” His voice climbed in pitch, and Keith swallowed again. “I just. Are you all right?”

“What do you care? You don’t know me.”

“But I do.” And at this Keith sounded stronger, more sure of himself. He stretched out one hand, touched Hunk’s shoulder lightly before drawing back and clasping his hands together. “I. I know what it’s like.”

“You know what it’s like.” Hunk turned, pinned Keith with sad, angry eyes. “How could you know what it’s like? How could you know _anything_ of what I’m feeling? You know _nothing_ about me, nothing about what I’m going through!”

“I know.” Keith’s words were soft, hard to pick out, and he stared intently at his joined hands. “I know what it’s like to be guilty, to feel as if you’re the reason someone died. To know that you _are_ the reason someone you loved died.”

“Go away!” Hunk snarled. “I don’t need your sympathy, and I don’t need your psycho babble. What could you possibly know, anyway? You’re just an ex-slave.”

“I wasn’t always a slave,” Keith said. “My family sold me into slavery after they caught me kissing another boy. They didn’t want someone so _shameful_ around anymore. They didn’t want a gay son. I don’t know what they did with my lover. I think they killed him; he wasn’t from a wealthy family like I was.”

“I’m not gay!” Hunk turned back, slammed his hand against the wall. “I’m not gay!”

“But you feel responsible for someone’s death. You feel like you should have died. Maybe you’ve already tried to kill yourself.” Keith rolled up one sleeve and Hunk saw the long, white scars that followed the path of Keith’s veins. “Maybe you’ve failed.” One hand came up to gently touch the cut near Hunk’s eye, trace the bruises on his face. “Maybe you’re still trying.”

Hunk pulled away and he knew that he was about to cry. “Go away,” he whispered, plaintively. He was so confused and so guilty. Every time he looked at Keith he felt his heart jump a little, felt nervous and giddy like he felt around girls sometimes, but never to this extent, never to the point where it was so powerful, so dizzying. But every little jump betrayed his brother, for how could he do this, lust after men, and live when Josef had died? “Please. Leave me alone.”

“No.” Keith came closer, touched Hunk’s lips with the tips of his fingers. With his other hand he touched Hunk’s neck, brought his head down slowly, kissed the larger man gently, sweetly.

In the back of his throat Hunk whimpered and let go of his fear.

“Hunk,” Keith said breathily, wetly into Hunk’s ear and he snapped back to the present where Keith was warm and smooth and gentle against Hunk’s cheek, his chin sharp where it dug into Hunk’s shoulder. This was solid. This was real. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”

“Nothing.” Hunk sighed again, placed Keith’s hand over his heart, and turned his head so that he could rest his forehead against the back of Keith’s neck. “Nothing. I’m just. No. Never mind.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm,” Keith said.

Hunk sighed, breathed in stale musk and sweat and shampoo. He could still feel the memory heat of Ellas beating against his skin and he wondered at what he had given up.

He loved Keith.

He hoped that was enough.


End file.
